A Little Miracle and Other Stories
by latefortea
Summary: This is a collection of the one-chapter short stories I've written about Phantom.
1. A Little Miracle

**Hello! I think I ran into a barrier with my last story so I'm not sure if I'll be continuing it or not. I got the idea for this story tonight, and decided to try a different style of storytelling. Please read & review! Thank you!**

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Christine ran as fast as she could to the dormitories because everyone was at dinner. She would use the little time she had alone. She was afraid in the beginning, but when she found the first note, she was so pleased with herself and she smiled widely. The aria was from one of the many operas she had heard as a young ballerina in the opera house. She loved her life there. Christine realized that she could not keep the vow of silence she made three years ago. After all, she was only seven. Her mother-well, Madame Giry, told her that her late father's one true wish would be for her to keep singing. He could hear her in heaven no doubt, and she was more than pleased to sing for him. How she wished he was with her! When he was alive she sang for her papa daily. When she heard his violin being tuned, she knew she was requested for a performance. At five she planned her entrances and exits, bowing proudly as her father's prima donna. She was ten now and fatherless, and far too shy to reveal her voice to anyone but him.

She even remembered all of the words of the aria and she began to dance as she had seen the prima donna dance, with poise and arrogance. She pictured her father in front of her.

"Look papa!" She paraded around the room, laughing at herself as she sang, but when she reached the highest note, she could not continue. She looked down, upset but unsurprised. She spun around to begin again, but was interrupted by the sudden flow of short curly-haired pixies rushing through the doors. She looked down and painted a happy, normal face over her true dismayed one and walked over to greet her sister, Meg. The truth is that she was lost after her father's death. She was still lost now, and had so little direction in her life unlike the other girls she lived with. She wondered if these girls even thought of things such as life and death . . .

That night Christine was twisting and turning in her bed. It was nearly impossible for her to find a comfortable position. Why was she so anxious all of the time? She felt as if she was constantly shaking. Just as she noticed herself shaking her nose started to sting and tears formed in her eyes. It really was unhealthy for a girl of Christine's age to have such trouble sleeping. She knew why, yes, she knew why. She thought of her father every night and every night the grief swelled in her chest. She always wondered why she deserved to feel so horrible.

She turned over for the third time. Her sobs stopped when a soothing voice called her name. He had been with her since she was brought to the opera house. He was her angel of music. She knew she should have continued to sing when her father sent her the angel, but she knew that singing when her papa was not alive would break her heart. So she didn't. Her angel took away her pain when he sang to her. And he was faithful. But tonight he did not sing.

"You never told your angel what a divine voice you have! You have a gift, Christine." The man's voice was filled with yearning that he tried to hide, but he didn't have to. She would not see. He looked at her from his usual position in the dormitory. She looked around as she always did, trying and failing to find the source of her angel's beautiful voice. She looked desperate, but why?

"Angel, I cannot sing" she tried to laugh as if the thought was funny. But she was too young to pull any tricks on anyone, let alone the infamous opera ghost. He spoke again, trying to coax the truth out of this little girl that he adored, even more now that he had been stuck deep in the chest by her voice.

"I happened to hear you my dear." Christine gasped at his words. He had already infiltrated and skewed this girl's reality; why not tell her the truth? He wanted her to sing. He took a long breath, waiting for her answer.

Christine sat up and rested her head on her hands.

"I do not want to sing angel." She was afraid of this angel now.

The angel had come to rely on this girl for air. Every time he thought about his lie he would vow never to return to her but he soon found that within minutes of his vow breathing was difficult. Her pleas to her father for an angel three years ago echoed in his head and he was walking to the same hiding place, lying to her still. And this angel was twenty years old. This angel should have been young and free. Free to work, free to have friends, free to find love . . . but the answer is that he was not free. He was chained down and tortured by his birthright. Twenty years old and he lived beneath this opera house. He settled for quiet loneliness when he returned here after being abroad. He wanted solitude but found a girl that he claimed was his soul mate instead. He wanted her to sing.

The angel had an inane sense of his soul mate's feelings. He saw every part of her broken heart through those eyes. What eyes they were! He had memorized them; chestnut brown and so wide . . . so wide and so beautiful. He did his best to keep his feelings out of his voice.

"Are you afraid, Christine?" He faltered as he said her name. She looked around nervously, but finally decided to tell her angel the truth.

"Yes." It was true. Christine had been shaken with fear when her own guardian asked to hear her sing. And Christine, although only ten years old, had figured it out. She could only sing for her papa. "Only for papa," she thought to herself. But if her father sent this being to her, could he want her to sing for her angel?

The angel read her mind and spoke again. He did not care about hiding anything this time.

"I will not let you fear anything, my love. You must not fear me, I am your angel."

…

Christine grew older but she never grew out of her fear. The moment came when the angel could not stand to live without her voice for another second. His own voice boomed throughout the chapel as he demanded her to overcome her fear. He was sure she would run in fear.

His soul mate could surprise him yet! For she was here before him performing a miracle. That is what her voice was, his miracle. The song was no longer simple and the words were no longer meaningless. The angel went weak at the knees his head started to spin. He took a step forward to embrace this beautiful girl but stopped himself. "Damn it."

Christine's head shot up to the corner that the angel had carefully selected as his hiding place. The angel prolonged the silence and Christine looked down in disappointment as the angel cursed himself again.

"Christine, you have" the angel was almost unable to finish the sentence, "the most beautiful voice I have ever heard." He smiled and he almost wished Christine could see him. But she protested.

"No, angel _you _have the most beautiful voice. I love it when you sing me to sleep! Would you . . ." Christine broke the sentence but the angel broke down at the sound of her voice.

"Yes?" the angel urged Christine to finish her thought.

"Would you sing with me?" Christine looked down as she said this because she was ashamed. "Why would an angel want to sing with a little girl like her?" she thought. She was thankful her father had sent her such a gift.

The angel was crying now, and he dare not speak while in his state. He dried his tears as quickly as they came and adjusted his posture.

"It would be an honor to sing with you mademoiselle." He was pleased with himself when Christine giggled. "Stand up straight now, with your shoulders relaxed and your facing straight ahead" he smiled as she did so. "Now from the beginning, please."

She began the song again and she stopped to giggle when her angel joined her but he kept going, waiting for her voice to join his in heaven. The voice joined and he shivered. Young and old their voices wove together and it was the angel's miracle.

Only for her papa and her angel would she sing. "He must like me!" she thought.

…

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**I hope you enjoy it so far! Please review if you'd like! **


	2. Five Years Later

The night was cold and silent. Nothing stirred except for the snow that fell slowly and was blown by the winter breeze. Suddenly the grand building lit up, and a golden light could be seen be seen pouring out of the ballroom windows.

"This year has not killed me as I hoped it would," the man thought bitterly. He thought about the night he left. Refusing to leave Paris and refusing to impose upon the humble Persian, the man had roamed the streets since he left the opera house. He thought about this and inevitably the girl as he walked toward the opera. He had no intention to of course, but when he looked up he found himself in front of his old home, taking in that golden light that seemed to put all of Paris to shame. He observed the golden chandelier in the ballroom, "an excessive addition" he remarked to himself. As he stepped closer he instinctively pulled his hood over his head. He glanced in through the window and had to hold in his laughter at the sight.

"How long had it been?" he asked himself. "Five years? And yet those fools still parade around every New Year in those masks!" The man could not help himself. He walked down and through the old entrance. Tears formed in his eyes as he saw his old home again. His pursuers cared so little that they never cleared out what was left of his belongings. He shook his head and ascended to the opera house. He reached the top and heard music. He walked in the opposite direction, convincing himself he was now behind the wall of an abandoned hallway adjacent to the ballroom. He emerged slowly and as soon as he looked around, he heard laughter and footsteps. He retreated behind the wall again and used the small hold he once built to see the source of the noise.

A young couple in costume dress came running. They stopped briefly and kissed passionately, then rushed into an empty room and closed the door. The man laughed and only stopped himself so he could emerge unseen and unheard from his hiding place. He indeed was in an abandoned hallway not far from the ballroom, and reasoning that the mask he wore daily could double as his costume, the man on impulse decided to join the party, and all the while his excitement grew; a masquerade ball was the only place where he could freely walk among people, and he was happy to just be near other human beings. He walked toward the ballroom and attached himself to the first crowd he saw. The music reached a crescendo and the dancers swooned because of it, "and from the massive amounts of alcohol" the man noted. He stood still in a spot near the back of the room.

Fools though they were, he enjoyed watching them. He stared purposefully at the turns of the dresses and the blurred masks, spinning into a mixture of color and light. The man sighed. When the music stopped, the twisting dresses and spinning faces stopped accordingly, and the man saw the masks look up to face the stairs, where he and the girl once stood. He saw two men he did not recognize accept the applause of the crowd. One of them spoke loudly:

"Thank you all for attending our annual New Year's Masquerade Ball!" The cheering crowd interrupted him. They must have been the managers.

"We-we hope you are enjoying yourselves as much as we are!" The crowd broke into forced laughter and the man rolled his eyes.

"Now!" the other manager chimed in.

"We have reserved a special surprise for you all. Five years ago, this lovely soprano graced our stage and made a lasting impression."

The man heard the murmurs of the crowd and chills fell down his spine.

"She was the girl who was kidnapped by the Phantom of the Opera! Yes, yes, just before the performance ended!"

"It cannot be," was all the man could say. The managers interrupted him as they introduced the woman together:

"Let us welcome our guest of honor tonight, the lovely soprano, Christine Daaé!"

The crowd cheered once again and the woman descended to meet the managers. She wore all black and gracefully bowed to the fanfare in front of her. Her dress bore her shoulders but they were covered now by a black shawl. Her dark hair looked almost red and bags accompanied her green eyes, which shone brighter than he had ever seen. The man noticed these things but was most struck by her eyes and how much they seemed to know.

The guest of honor smiled widely and was cheered into a speech.

"Thank you all so very much! When I received the invitation to return as an honored guest I was overwhelmed. I must also thank the new managers for their gracious support. Thank you all very much again. Now," she said as she put on her mask, "let the party continue!"

The audience rang out again as Christine made her way down the steps to join the rest of the party. The man was already making his way forward, as he soon realized, without a plan. He smoothed his greying hair while walking quickly in pursuit of the girl. He bumped into nearly everyone he passed and left no word of apology. At last he reached her. He tapped her on the shoulder and immediately noticed the new scent she wore . . . sweet but no longer innocent. She turned around briskly but jumped when she saw his mask.

"Ah! Well monsieur, I see you are playing the Phantom of the Opera tonight!" The man could not speak for shock at the change in her voice. But she spoke instead.

"Would you like to stare at me all night or is it a dance you want monsieur?" The man quickly nodded and Christine laughed mockingly.

"Well then, shall we?" she held her hand out for him to take and he took it, relieved to have gained back just enough of his composure. Christine danced with ease and confidence as they glided through masked faces that the man could no longer see.

The pair was pushed occasionally by the drunken dancers but Christine was never fazed. The man thought of every possible way to tell her, and deciding that it would be better if they were outside of the ballroom, he acted and gradually pushed her toward the door. She did not fight him. Up until now, the man had successfully avoided eye contact with the girl, but she found his face and made sure to send him a look that told him she knew exactly who he was and what he was doing.

They stopped now, out of breath in the hallway. The man immediately ripped off her mask for fear she would do the same. She screamed and that piece of fabric that hid the last five years of her life fell to the floor.

"You!" As soon as she said this she looked around at the other people present. She grabbed him and forcefully pulled him around the corner to the same hallway he had emerged from.

"Shit, shit, shit! And I thought there was no chance of seeing you here . . . I should have known, but no! I thought you were dead! What an idiot!"

The man was shocked _before _Christine cursed and it took him many seconds to speak at all, let alone defend himself.

"All I wanted was a laugh" he snapped. "To see these fools in their natural habitat—but I saw you instead! My how you have changed _Countess_! How may I ask is your husband?"

The man's bitter tone did not surprise Christine. She furrowed her brow.

"Dead I hope."

The man's heartbeat quickened when she said this and he moved his mouth to speak, but Christine, lost in thought, not even looking at the man, interrupted him.

"Christine Daaé is my name monsieur, make no connection between me and that man ever again, do you hear?" Her eyes rested on him as she finished speaking.

"Y-yes, I am sorry." The look of shock had not yet left his face and the girl laughed.

"Are you shocked that I have grown monsieur?" The man stared at her face and was trying to understand the bags under her eyes and the . . . was that a scar on her shoulder? He did not notice it before under the light of the ballroom, but here in the darkness of the hallway and the faded cosmetics, he saw the large scar crossing her shoulder. He grabbed her.

"He has hurt you, Christine! How dare that scoundrel . . ." Christine wiggled her way out of his grip and screamed.

"Get your hands off of me! I cannot . . . Don't . . . Don't t-touch . . . I cannot be t-touched that way monsieur!" Her breathing was heavy and the man's face fell in shock and sorrow. He wondered what exactly that man did to Christine . . . what life had she known since she left?

Christine was shivering and began to look around for an escape.

"You have been so strong" she told herself over and over.

The man did not want to speak so he acted. He moved slowly toward Christine's shaking form and held out his arms.

"Trust me, Christine."

"W-why should I?" she snapped back quickly.

"All you two ever did was fight over me as if I was s-something to be won! Well monsieur, I am not! I have never belonged to either one of you although you certainly claimed me as so. Just in case you have forgotten, I am a human the same as you, and I will belong to nobody." She scoffed and began to walk away. Refusing to lose her again, the man, rather than touch her again, stood in front of her to prevent her from leaving. She folded her arms and found that the longer she looked at his face, the easier it was to look at. Soon she regained her composure entirely. Her head cleared and she realized how truly relieved she was, as much as she hated him, to see this man again. He was someone who knew her before _it _happened, and she knew that unlike the elite's mocking laughs at her claims of Viscount's abusive nature, this man standing in front of her saw the scars and believed her.

She sighed and embraced the man, and after five years of cold, dry, parties, where the no one exchanged anything but business advice and political arguments, it felt so good to embrace another human being. It felt good and whole to accept the comfort of someone for the first time since her marriage to the Vicomte.

She shook as she squeezed him and only looked up when she felt his tears on her neck. She knew, certainly, why he was crying. He had seen the scars on her back, which decorated her shoulders and descended down her back and disappeared underneath her dress.

"I know" was her only reply.


	3. Either Way You Choose

"For either way you choose-"

The mechanism keeping Raoul alive broke. Snapped. The rope lifted Raoul off of the ground and he lost his grip. Raoul stopped speaking and Erik's eyes shot to his competitor, now deceased. Erik looked back at Christine who was confused as to why Erik's manic episode had so abruptly ended. She couldn't understand the look of sorrow that appeared out of nowhere on his face.

"What is it? What!" Her eyes turned to Raoul.

Erik held his hands out in defense. Christine turned back to Erik and she looked ready to kill him. But instead, she only gave orders.

"Get him down from there."

Erik was confused but knew he had no choice at this point. He had killed the girl's lover. Why wasn't he surprised?

Erik moved slowly with his hands still out, protecting himself.

"GET HIM DOWN NOW! Do you really think I could hurt you, you piece of . . ." Christine's words died down and she started to sob. Erik jumped and swiftly removed the Punjab lasso from the boy's neck and laid him down gently. Christine walked over to him as a widow to her late husband. The tears dried on her face. She smiled.

"Six months and he never once let down his barrier to me. Can you believe that?" She looked at Erik who remained terrified. Christine sighed.

"I didn't know his hopes, his dreams. And I shared everything with him. I loved him so . . . why didn't he love me?" Erik spoke now.

"Oh but child he did-"

"Not enough to trust me." She laughed as she impersonated him. "'My dream is to marry you,' a very romantic cover of course." Erik shook his head. He was actually annoyed.

"They are coming." At this, Christine stood and wiped the tears from her face.

"Let us go, then."

Erik looked uneasy. "What shall we do about his . . .?"

Christine interrupted him.

"Leave him. His soul is no longer there, so what does it matter?"

Erik didn't have time to stare at her in shock. He grabbed her hand.

"What makes you think I'm going with you?" Her words pierced him even though he knew she had no reason to respect or even pity him now.

"They are going to destroy this place and anyone in it."

"They would not harm a frightened little girl, surely." Christine made a point to look as childish as possible, just to piss him off.

"Don't let death make you as cold as it has made me." The intensity in Erik's eyes was there because he wanted it to be, and Christine finally knew it.

"I'm not going with you."

"You don't have a choice."

"I don't have a choice? Really, monsieur? I chose to love Raoul even though I knew it would end this way. I am staying here."

Christine looked down at Erik's hand that still grasped her arm. She pulled away when shouts sounded. There was a loud thump, but it wasn't the men . . .

Christine looked at Erik and she knew he was ashamed of what he had done. More than Raoul's death, she hated that she could not care for Erik anymore. She had cared for both men, and now she carried no feelings for either of them. She had doubts for Raoul where she had no doubts for Erik. She didn't know what Raoul dreamed of, but unfortunately she knew what Erik dreamed of. It scared her and she chose blind security. She certainly didn't blame herself for that.

"We must go." Erik's beautiful voice was like a pest to Christine.

"Leave me."

"Christine." Erik led her to the living space, where the mysterious sound came from. She felt hot. In front of her, Erik's sheet music lined the floor in flames. They lit the place on fire. Did they know that Christine and Raoul were still down here? Well, Christine anyway. Christine turned around to see Erik smiling. His home was on fire and the man was smiling. Christine jumped away from the building flames.

"I have no choice."

Erik didn't try to grab her again. He only presented the way in front of her.

"Just keep walking forward and I'll tell you where to go."

"But you're still-"

Christine turned around and Erik had his mask on again, as if by magic.

"Go."


	4. White Clouds

Christine woke up shivering. She glanced out of the one large window in the dormitories that seemed to show her all of Paris. It was snowing! Christine vowed the ill weather would not foil her plan.

Christine wanted to tell Meg. She was her best friend, but even so—she knew Meg would fail to understand why she had to do this.

So instead of telling Meg, after rehearsals Christine went to Meg's mother, Madame Giry. She tugged on the Madame's sleeve (she only was as tall as her waist) insistently when the woman would not look down at the little girl pestering her.

"Madame Giry?" Christine whispered.

"Speak up, child."

"May you take me to visit my father's grave?" Christine looked down at her shoes as she said this.

"Christine. What have I told you?"

"He is in my heart, but—"

"He is in your heart. And besides, I have neither the means nor the time to take you, child."

"But today is—"

"I am sorry Christine. It is not possible. Now go and do your chores."

"They are already done, Madame."

"Well then, Christine. Go and find Meg."

"Yes Madame." Christine looked down and walked away. She sniffed in an effort to stop her tears before they started. Today was her father's birthday.

On her way back to the dormitories, she noticed the halls were unusually quiet. She looked around, but no one was there. Suddenly she heard an unearthly humming coming from inside of the walls. Instinct told her it was her teacher, her angel of music. She smiled.

"Angel?" Her whispered tone sent chills down his spine.

"Yes child, come with me."

At the end of the hallway, at the darkest part, a hidden door opened and a gloved hand waited to escort Christine not to the cellars of the opera house, but to the outside. He waited there with a new coat, gloves and scarf for the girl.

They walked through the maze within the walls and when they exited, found themselves in the lobby of the opera house. Her angel was masked and cloaked.

A horse waited for them outside.

"Where are we going?"

"To visit your father's grave, of course."

"Oh angel, you knew!"

"Yes. Come."

Her angel lifted her with ease and placed her on the horse. He then got on himself.

"Hold on tight, my dear. No matter what, do not let go of me."

"I won't angel."

They rode and Christine held as tight as she could.

It seemed they arrived at the graveyard in no time at all. Once there, he jumped off of the horse and then lifted Christine off. Instead of placing her on the ground, he said:

"It's freezing. Lay your head on my chest."

He tightened her scarf and she obeyed him. He stroked her curly hair as he walked to her father's grave.

"Where is it?"

Christine pointed to one end of the graveyard.

As he strode through the graveyard, her angel began to hum softly, hoping he would be able to keep Christine warm. She sighed with contentment at the sound of his voice.

They arrived at her father's grave and he kneeled. She ran from his arms and immediately put her hands on his gravestone. She stood like that for a while, before kneeling to pray. As she did so, the angel looked at her and wondered what she was thinking. She moved from her knees and sat down. Refusing to allow her to sit on the cold ground, her angel sat behind her and instructed her to sit on his lap. She stood up and motioned for him to come closer to the stone. He did, and she sat in his lap. She simply stared at the gravestone for a long time. Her angel grew so used to the silence that he jumped when she spoke.

"Angel, do you think I'm wrong to want to visit my father's grave? Mme. Giry always scolds me."

"Of course you are not, child. You are devoted to your father, as I am devoted to you."

"I am devoted to you too, angel. Angel?"

"Yes, Christine?"

"Do you have a daughter?"

"Why no, I do not."

"Well then . . ." Christine looked up to meet her angel's eyes. She whispered, completely unsure of herself:

"Would it be all right if _I _was your daughter?"

The angel's eyes instinctively blinked to hide his tears, but he fought his urges to hide and returned the girl's gaze. He owed her this much.

"Christine, I would be honored to call you my daughter."

Christine giggled and hugged her angel tightly. He returned it with a squeeze and refused to let go until she did.

"I love you very much, angel."

"I love you too, Christine."

The snow continued to fall as the pair sat there staring at her father's grave. Suddenly Christine rose. She approached her father's gravestone once more and stroked the smooth stone. Her tears felt warm on her face as they fell.

"Happy Birthday, Papa."


End file.
